


Leeward

by Brigantine



Category: The Invisible (2007), due South
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:20:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27515965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brigantine/pseuds/Brigantine
Summary: Detective Brian Larson wonders why the Mountie won't look him in the eye.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Leeward

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [9:30 to Yellowknife](https://archiveofourown.org/works/145039) by [aerye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerye/pseuds/aerye). 



> I actually wrote this back in 2008, and totally neglected to post it here. Thought I had, until [Ride_Forever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ride_Forever/pseuds/Ride_Forever) reminded me otherwise. Also I haven't been around much lately, so....
> 
> Anyway, I wrote this as a sequel (with permission) to Aerye's fabulous and heart-wrenching story, without which this one might not make a lot of sense.
> 
> I liked Detective Brian Larson in "The Invisible," and wished the film had developed his character a bit more. If you watch the film with the DVD commentary on, and the deleted scenes, there was a lot of good Brian stuff left on the cutting room floor.

There's Sergeant Benton Fraser, RCMP, tall and straight in his pressed brown uniform. Polite, well spoken and, Brian's guessing, not comfortable down here south of the border. He's a long way from home, is Sergeant Fraser, a long way down the map from far-ranging patrols out of Aklavik. Brian has figured, in the short time since he's met the man, that Benton Fraser's not accustomed to having humans to talk to, not used being warm. Kind of a weird thing to think, that last bit, but these days Brian lets that sort of thing be.

Sergeant Fraser is in Captain Fisher's office, filling in further details on the Soames case, and Brian's out here ostensibly studying the hefty file on Willard Soames and his erstwhile partner Joseph Carlin, the latter still at large. Willard Soames is a large man in his early thirties; dark hair, big in the shoulders and, Brian has found through personal experience, slow to anger. Joseph Carlin, on the other hand, as he squints out from an old mug shot from when he was twenty-four and had been arrested for robbing a series of gas stations, appears physically similar to Soames, but is historically the more violent of the two. 

Truth is Brian's already pored over this mess a dozen times, and now he's just letting his brain contemplate the enigma that is Sergeant Fraser of the Yukon. Okay, Sergeant Fraser of the Northwest Territories, but that's such a mouthful. 

Brian relaxes with his chair tilted back, rocking a bit on its hind legs. He scritches the sergeant's dog behind the left ear. He's an old dog, big and fluffy and mostly white, and from the way he moved when Sergeant Fraser and he crossed the bull pen to introduce themselves it looked to Brian as though Diefenbaker's dealing with some arthritis in his hips. He's got a hint of that rolling seaman's gait in his back end, the odd hitch in his step. Diefenbaker's a hell of a name for a dog. Has to be a story there. Brian looks up as Sergeant Fraser leaves the captain's office. 

Hitch in the sergeant's gitalong now and then too, Brian's noticed. A man gets to be pushing fifty, and no matter how fit he is, a long career of hard use catches up to a guy eventually. Brian's done his homework. Aklavik is a very small town, its population almost entirely native Gwich'in and Inuvialit. Sergeant Fraser could have had his pick of assignments, so what, exactly, attracted him to a remote place like Aklavik? Stories and stories, walking toward him in an old-fashioned uniform, and Benton Fraser more than does it justice. Damn. Trouble headed his way, Brian can feel it.

"Ah. I see you and Diefenbaker are, ehm, getting acquainted." Sergeant Fraser gives his left eyebrow a quick stroke. 

Forced joviality, there. Still doesn't seem to want to look directly at Brian. From the moment they met this morning, Sergeant Fraser has avoided looking at Brian any more than is absolutely necessary. The phrase "deer caught in headlights" is what comes to mind. For a second there, Brian was worried the guy was going to faint, right there in the squad room, and then he all at once recovered, gathered himself together, shook off whatever had taken hold of him, and to look at him it was as though he'd never turned white, then pink, and barely been able to stutter out his name. 

Now Brian wants to take him by the shoulders and shake him. _Look me in the eyes! I'm not dangerous._ Kind of a peculiar reaction on his own part there, really.

He tips his chair forward, earning a disappointed whine from Diefenbaker. Brian turns so that he can reach behind the other furry ear. The dog's amber eyes close in bliss. "Seems like a good guy," Brian observes. He glances up at the sergeant. "Has he got some wolf in him, maybe?"

Fraser's eyebrows flicker, and he meets Brian's eyes for a second, then slides away quick, concentrates on the dog instead. Blue eyes, clear and blue as the heart of a glacier. He sits down in the guest chair at Brian's desk. "Half, yes. Most people don't, well, it doesn't occur to most people."

Brian shrugs. "It's in his eyes. The way wolves seem to be able to stare right into a person, recognize if you're weak, if you're honest."

Fraser _looks_ at him, finally, with those blue, blue eyes, and he says, "Most people don't appreciate that kind of scrutiny. It makes them... resentful."

"It's a little like being a cop, yeah?"

"I. Well. Yes, I suppose it is." The sergeant frowns a little, fiddles with his Stetson. 

Brian notes pale skin, residual wind-burn over Fraser's cheeks, fine squint-lines curving outward from the corners of his eyes. "Captain suggested you not stay alone at the consulate in Seattle, I assume?"

Fraser blinks. "Yes. He believes Joseph Carlin may attempt to remove me from the proceedings. However, I'm sure we'll be fine. The building is secure, and the accommodations are quite generous."

"Remove you." Brian grimaces. "Sergeant Fraser, Joseph Carlin already tried to kill you twice." 

Fraser's hair is dark, greying at the temples, a recent scar still bright pink at his hairline on the left. "Well, now that was in the heat of battle, as it were. He and Mr. Soames were trying to escape."

Brian huffs out a sigh. "He shot you in the head, and then in the chest while you were down. It was only Willard Soames who kept him from finishing you. Frankly, I'm surprised Soames made it out alive." He pokes a finger at the open case file for emphasis. "We do know, thanks to Soames, that Carlin killed one more man before they split up in Anchorage. Yet you're not at all concerned that he'll come after you?"

Fraser asks blandly, "Why would he risk apprehension by leaving whatever haven he's found and coming after me now?"

"Because after the Soames trial is over," Brian suggests practicably, "you're going to come after him. You know that, I know it, and he knows it. He cost you three weeks in a hospital in Yellowknife; concussion, damage to the left lung, blood loss, hypothermia. Left you for dead in the snow, and it's only by the grace of God that Tom Bevan's buddies came looking for him, because he was late for work, and they heard the dogs barking." 

He leans forward, "You think Carlin won't take the chance to finish you when he knows exactly where you'll be for the next couple of weeks?"

Fraser licks his lower lip. Something sharp glints in his eyes, but his manner remains polite, restrained. "I can deal with Joseph Carlin if necessary," he assures. "Diefenbaker and I--"

"Diefenbaker is old," Brian reminds him, and damn if there isn't a twitch of anger in Fraser's face. "He's a tough guy, I'm sure, but he's not young anymore, and he's hurting, and that's why he was not with you the day you stumbled across Willard Soames and Joseph Carlin murdering Tom Bevan, isn't it. Sergeant, you need a human watching your back!"

"I do not need a partner," Fraser states flatly.

"Come back home with me," Brian offers.

"Pardon?" Fraser licks at his lip. Nervous tell number three. 

"If you don't want to stay at a safe-house, come home with me." Brian shrugs. "It's not fancy, but it's free. Anyway, after the Christmas season hullaballoo, it's been kind of quiet, to be honest."

"Really Detective Larson, I couldn't impose--hullaballoo?"

Brian explains, "Big family gathering down in Tokeland every Christmas. After that, the house up here always seems kind of quiet. Come on. I don't want you getting assassinated on my watch, if I can help it."

Fraser smiles a little, a small gesture that softens his face remarkably, makes him briefly accessible. "It's a generous offer, Detective Larson, but the consulate--"

Here Diefenbaker interrupts with a growl and a soft bark, and Fraser frowns at the old dog. "The Canadian consulate's central heating system is in perfect working order." 

Diefenbaker grumbles, and Fraser sighs, indulgent. "Very well." 

He translates apologetically, "It appears that Diefenbaker is adamant in his opinion that a home is always preferable to a consulate. Personally, I believe he's merely convinced of a higher probability of access to refined carbohydrates."

The weird thing for Brian right here is that instead of doubting whether Sergeant Fraser has been out in the snow too long, Brian finds himself fretting that if he follows his path too boldly here, the wolf will _know._

"I've got sixteen acres down there," Brian says. He's got water on to boil; tea for the sergeant - for Benton - and coffee for himself. He drops a filter into the one-cup cone over his coffee cup. "My grandfather willed it to me. My mom and my youngest sister live on seven acres next door."

Benton fidgets at Brian's kitchen table, a little shift here, a twiddle with his fingers there, still that tendency not to look at Brian directly. "Tokeland is a rural town, then?" 

"Just shy of five hundred people. Raymond, over east of us has almost three thousand, but we're not much more than a village. Going away to college was something of an adjustment." The kettle begins to whistle, and he turns to attend it.

"But you have family there? You mentioned--I noticed the photographs in the hallway." His voice is soft, rough, got a rumble of authority to it, but he doesn't strike Brian as the kind of man who tends to throw his weight around. 

More like, he seems a man who's grown accustomed to being alone. He gets his own way because there's no one to argue with. Well, except the wolf. Brian has recognized the bump of a boot knife beneath the sergeant's carefully pressed trousers. Either Benton does believe Joseph Carlin's hunting him, or... or perhaps this is a long-established habit, never leave home without an extra weapon. Given the country Fraser patrols, that wouldn't be so strange. Brian hasn't got the full picture yet, but so far the scattered puzzle pieces are interesting.

"My younger brother Andy and his kids live in Portland. My sister Susannah and her gang live in Snohomish, Eric's in Seattle, and Becky teaches seventh grade in Raymond." He grins, "She's a braver man than I am."

Fraser nods, drops his gaze to his hands, fidgets a little more, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. "What--when, ah, your father, he's--?"

"Lost Pop a couple of years ago. You take sugar? Milk?"

"Milk, thank you." Fraser accepts the mug in calloused hands, the skin cold-burned, finely cracked in places along the joints. "I'm sorry, I--I don't mean to pry."

Brian joins him at the table. "It's all right. We miss him. Things happen, that's the way of it. How about you?"

"Pardon?"

Brian meets Fraser's gaze over the rim of his coffee cup. "Where are you when you're not patrolling the Territories? You have a home base? Family?"

Fraser clears his throat, gives a small shake of his head. "I have a half-sister in Whitehorse. Maggie, that's my sister." He frowns, scrubs at one eyebrow, and says, "Our father--um, no one else, no. There's a cabin, what used to be my father's cabin."

Brian says, "We get to this age and we've started losing people. I've been very lucky so far, really."

"It's just Diefenbaker and I," Fraser tells him, and the neutral expression on his face just then strikes Brian all kinds of wrong. 

Next morning after breakfast Brian phones Kate, to see how she's doing. She informs him acerbically that she is the size of a house, how does he think she's doing? He gives her the rundown on the Soames-Carlin case, mostly to keep her in the loop. He's hanging up the wall unit as Benton comes back in from the yard, with Diefenbaker. 

"Kate," Brian explains. "My partner. She's on maternity leave. I think I scored points with Mark on that one."

"Mark?" Benton picks a stray leaf out of Diefenbaker's tail, and the old half-wolf trots off to give Brian's kitchen another thorough sniffing.

"I talked Kate into staying home for the last month of her pregnancy. See, normally I'm the one phoning her up at 3 a.m. and dragging her out of their bed to come chase bad guys with me, so you can understand how a husband might entertain a certain resentment."

Benton's smile is hesitant, but genuine. "Indeed."

Just before lunch they manage to get a last known address on Joseph Carlin. Brian doesn't expect him to still be there. That would be too lucky a turn. 

Diefenbaker is complaining of impending starvation. In addition to having accepted the idea that the wolf and the Mountie actually understand one another, Brian has decided to believe Benton's assertion that while Diefenbaker is mostly deaf, he can lip-read. A half-deaf half-wolf who reads lips. Okey-dokey. 

They visit a favorite cafe of Brian's for lunch. Benton orders a salad and fruit to go with his hamburger, and he eats those first, attacking them with a sort of enthusiasm Brian usually reserves for pie.

"We don't," Benton explains, swallowing a mouthful of tomato, "get a lot of fresh fruit in the Territories."

"Tell me what it's like up there," Brian coaxes. "I've never been north of Banff."

"Well, this time of year of course the snow pack is heavy, but in the spring the top metre or so of earth thaws, and there's an abundance of wildflowers. The Arctic supports an impressive array of fur-bearing animals. Most people don't expect a wide variety of species so far north, but its desolate appearance is deceiving." Benton stops suddenly, looking sheepish. "I'm sorry. I spend a large portion of the year on patrol, and during those times I don't enjoy many opportunities to interact with other humans. Even my father's--my--cabin is quite isolated."

"Your cabin, that's near Aklavik?"

"No. No, I have assigned RCMP housing near town, but I'm rarely there. We have several thousand square kilometers to patrol, Constable McKendrick and I. He's recently married, so I generally take the long patrols. I prefer it, just the dogs and I, on our own."

"Sounds kind of lonesome."

"It's a privilege to serve. There's not... there's not much left of the old cabin, anyway." 

That little furrow is back between Benton's eyes, and he's not looking at Brian. Avoidance, Brian thinks, is its own sort of answer to a question. Liar, liar. "How do you handle being away from Dief for so long at a time?"

Guilt is an emotion Benton doesn't hide well.

Brian realizes with an inward start that he is too open, here. Benton Fraser is a strong, muscular man, outweighs Brian by a good twenty-five, thirty pounds, and he puts off a lot of body heat, yet Brian imagines he feels tendrils of cold rolling off of Fraser, imagines a shroud of darkness and endless ice, and it is an unsettling situation. He ought to shut down a little, be more careful, not step so close to the edge. But of course he learns more at the edge, always has. 

"I try to take him with me, when I can. He used to be lead dog for the team, when he was young, but now he rides in the sled." A smile twitches at one corner of Benton's mouth. "He finds being 'baggage,' embarrassing, but it's better than being left behind all the time. I." He frowns and clears his throat. "I would be very upset if Diefenbaker, if Diefenbaker were to pass on while I was out. Um, will you tell me more about Tokeland?"

Brian accepts the dodge. "It's on the coast, down toward Oregon. Tokeland rests on the north shore of a large inlet. It's part of a peninsula, actually. Got our backs to the north wind, mountains behind us. A short walk will get you a long stretch of beach. The house isn't big, kind of a glorified cabin, but it's solid. Granddad's acreage is mostly trees and pastures, and I leave it alone. I'm not much for mowing lawns, and I like watching the deer."

Benton toys with the remains of his lunch, frowning thoughtfully down at his fries. "When you retire, is that where you'll go?"

"Sell the house here in Burnaby," Brian confirms. "Head south, spend my days fishing and watching the younger generations of Larsons rise up after me." He adds, impulsive and rushing it a little, "I think... I think you and Dief would enjoy it down there. Best of both worlds, y'know? Indoor plumbing, but without the crowds." 

Benton stares out the cafe window for a long moment. "Dief would enjoy barking at the sea gulls." He turns to Brian, his smile soft. "Not chasing them, mind you, but he could certainly give them a sound verbal thrashing."

Joseph Carlin's apartment is in a small, neat building in a mostly respectable part of Burnaby. Brian is expecting something seedier, something more hidden, more suited to a man going to ground. He presents the search warrant to the manager, who lets them inside. After a casual search they find that though the rent is current, the apartment appears suspiciously tidy. 

Brian inquires, "Mr. Parks, how long has it been since you last recall seeing Mr. Carlin?" 

Mr. Parks plucks at his cardigan for a moment, then, "He moved in last month. The unit comes mostly furnished, so there wasn't much to move. He brought a suitcase and some groceries, and that was the last I saw him." He frowns. "Paid his rent with a cashier's check. I assumed he'd just moved to town, maybe didn't have a checking account yet, but you think maybe there was some funny business going on?"

Brian nods briefly. "Well now, that's what we're here to find out. Thank you very much, Mr. Parks. You've been very helpful." He turns to Benton. "Decoy?"

"Perhaps. There's nothing perishable in the kitchen cabinets, nor the refrigerator. I'd be surprised, were we to find that he actually lives here."

"Then what's he up to, I wonder."

Benton agrees with a sharp nod. "Exactly."

As they descend the stairs, Brian says, "I'd feel better if you had a license to carry. You still wearing that boot knife?"

Benton comes to an abrupt halt, and Brian nearly runs into him. "How did you know?"

"I always know," Brian claims, as he passes him by.

"W--always--what d'you mean?"

"What do you want for dinner?"

"We just had lunch." Benton gets into the passenger seat, still giving Brian that faintly befuddled expression.

"First, we go to County and talk to Willard Soames again, see if we can get him to give us a little more insight into the habits and deep, innermost thoughts of Joseph Carlin. Then we go to the grocery store and we purchase comestibles, according to a prepared list. Then we go home and cook." He turns to Benton. "You can cook, I hope?"

"I'm a dab hand at caribou stew," Benton offers.

"Perfect."

"Do you suppose we could buy oranges?"

Brian glances at him as he's braking behind a mini-van at the intersection. "Oranges, bananas, apples, my friend. Hell, they might have mangoes. A guy could just go crazy in there."

"Indeed," Benton murmurs happily.

Brian grins at him. "Not much fresh fruit in the Arctic, I remember."

Benton flickers a smile. "We have plenty of lichen," he says.

"I'll keep that in mind." He finds himself making a list of things he would like to buy for Benton Fraser at the supermarket - bananas, tangerines. The list goes on for a bit. 

"I never planned on killing anybody," Willard Soames assures Sergeant Fraser. "I'm a thief, sure, but Joe, he's the impatient one. Killing Bevan to keep him quiet about the robbery in Tuk was his idea, not mine. I'd rather have bought him off." He rolls heavy shoulders, adding, "You know, maybe scare him a little, then offer him a nice payoff, keep him quiet. But Joe..." He winces. "Joe never quite forgave me for not letting him cut your throat. Now that he knows you're alive, he'll figure he's next on your to-do list. That puts you at the top of his. You need to watch your back, Sergeant."

Brian pushes off from where he's been leaning against the wall of the interview room. "He's renting an apartment he's not living in. Know anything about that?"

Soames nods, "He did that once before, in Anchorage, when we thought we'd been recognized. Used it as a lure, just to see if anyone was tailing us. It was a false alarm, but yeah, that's what he did." Soames glances between Benton and Brian. "Does that help?"

Benton stands and extends his hand. "You've been very helpful, Mr. Soames. Thank you kindly."

Willard Soames, who stands a head taller than Benton, returns the gesture and says, faintly bewildered, "You're welcome," as though until now no one in his life has ever thanked him for anything.

When they get back to the car Brian complains, "We just walked into a baited trap. How embarrassing is that?"

Benton brushes a thumb over one eyebrow. "I believe we can assume he's following us."

"You'd recognize him if you saw him, right?"

"I doubt I could forget him."

"Okay, then." Brian starts up the sedan. "Let's go buy some fruit."

Brian doesn't expect Carlin to show himself in the supermarket. It would be too easy for Benton to spot him, and murdering a cop in the dairy section tends to draw a lot of unwelcome attention. Still, Brian finds his radar set on high, ramped up by a feeling between his shoulders that's all too familiar. As they're cruising the condiments aisle he nudges Benton and asks him confidentially if he feels it too. 

Benton lets out a sharp breath and admits, "I was concerned that I might be paranoid. The bullet hole in my left breast still aches. It's hard not to be a tad on edge."

That cost him, Brian thinks. To admit that Brian was right and that he's maybe a little scared, a self-sufficient guy like Sergeant Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, that cost him. 

"Yeah," Brian agrees. "But you kind of want it to happen, too. Want him to just come on, make his move, so we can grab him and have done."

"I should very much like to eat my orange in peace," Benton grumbles.

With the short winter day rapidly waning, Brian's suspicious of the darkened parking lot, but they cross the tarmac and load their groceries into the sedan without incident. Maybe at home, Brian thinks. If Carlin's tailing them, it'll be the middle of the night, Carlin sneaking into the house, figuring he and Benton will be asleep, easy marks. Joe's the impatient one, Soames told them. Brian needs to make a phone call.

Brian's half-dozing in his bed, waking in the dark to think about Carlin, about Soames before drifting off again. He wakes and thinks about Annie, about how he let her down, a cycle of self-recrimination he thought he'd left behind. At 2:13 a.m. he's startled by a cold nose and a fuzzy muzzle against his shoulder. He blinks in the dark, his adrenaline spiking sharply. "Dief?"

The old half-wolf peers intently at him, and Brian swears it's not just the risen moon reflecting in Diefenbaker's eyes. There is _someone_ in there. He whuffles at Brian, a soft, urgent whine, then turns and trots toward the door and looks back. Scrubbing at his eyes, Brian scrambles out of bed and follows, chilly now in ragged sweat pants and an old white t-shirt.

The guest room door is open. Brian takes a moment to peer in. He finds Benton's bed empty, and Dief waiting impatiently at the end of the hallway. The glass from dozens of framed family photos glints dully in the dim grey light from the living room. 

Benton, clad in a white sleeveless under shirt and what looks like an old pair of thermals, hunches on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest as he leans against the cold glass of the slider. He seems carved out of pale marble, so still by moonlight.

_Jesus, he's beautiful_ collides harshly with _Oh shit, what's going on?_ and Brian crouches in front of him the way he might with the victim of an accident. "Benton?"

Benton starts, his eyes wide, and he thrusts one hand in front of him as though fending Brian off. Brian backs up a little, "Hey, Benton, it's me. You awake?"

"Not him," Benton mutters, half to himself, and then shakes his head sharply, seeming to acknowledge Brian for the first time. "No. I'm sorry. I'm fine, I just. I only came out to feel the cold. You see, you look like... Or no, it's just..." 

Jesus. "Whoever he was, I'm not him."

Benton's face contorts, an expression of intense grief that he tries to hide against the glass. "I apologize. My behavior must seem quite bizarre." He takes a deep, ragged breath. "You were unexpected."

Brian sits down on the carpet, making himself more comfortable, although man, with the heat turned down for the night it's pretty cold right here. "Do I look like someone you lost?"

"Lost, yes." Benton closes his eyes, as though caught in memory.

Diefenbaker butts up against his shoulder, and the Mountie enfolds him, holding him close, comforted. "Dief has reminded me repeatedly that you don't smell like..." Benton clears his throat, and says the name. "You don't smell like Ray. You do, however, bear a remarkable physical resemblance. Not so much as he appeared then, but--but as he might appear now, a few years older."

Brian recalls their first meeting, and Sergeant Fraser's strange reaction, as though, well, as though he'd seen a ghost, actually. "When you say lost, d'you mean...?"

"Dead? No." The grief passes over his face again, swiftly hidden. "Not as far as I know."

"Benton, I'm having trouble putting the pieces together, here."

"I just couldn't keep him, that's all. I wasn't the right one." Benton's faint smile seems bitter and hopeless. "You see, we should have stayed at the consulate, after all. You should get your rest." He starts to unfold, as though he's getting to his feet. "I do apologize for waking you." 

And they are back to frickin' square one.

Brian thinks fast and begins, "There was this young girl, Annie..."

Benton regards him quizzically, then, perhaps in spite of his own better judgment he sits down on the carpet again, his curious gaze steady on Brian.

Brian tries not to shiver. "Her dad, Jack was my partner, and I was always over there. Annie was a cute little kid, bright as a new penny. We were pals, me and Annie. When she was eight she asked me to marry her. By the time she was ten Jack was on the take and I couldn't cover for him anymore. I didn't turn him in to IA. I worked it out with some of the other guys. We figured we could pressure him to straighten out, make him see reason. He felt betrayed, quit the force. Quit me."

Brian stares out into his winter yard, the dark forms of alder and hemlock, leafless maples reaching into a clear night sky. He tries to distill what is in truth a long story, and not his favorite. Benton's gaze remains steady on him, patient. 

"A couple of years ago, when Annie was sixteen, she fell in with a bad crowd, ended up beating up a schoolmate, left him for dead in the woods, and she would not let me help her. Declared whatever friendship we'd had to be from another lifetime, and cut me off, tried to go it alone. After we found Nick - after Annie finally realized I wasn't the enemy and told me where he was, she snuck into the hospital and tried to help him, to make peace with him. But see, her creep of a boyfriend had shot her when she turned against him. So there she was, in a hospital, bleeding to death, trying to do the right thing at the last, and there was one moment when I thought I could feel her, felt her warm in my chest, a bright little sparkle at the back of my head, just like I always get when a thing is _right,_ but I let it pass, because it made no sense, and Kate was there, and I allowed her to distract me. I never would push for it, Benton."

Brian rubs at his face and finishes bitterly, "Annie figured out what the right thing was, and it was the last thing she did. Me, I let the right thing pass, because when you have too many hunches that other people can't work out, it brings you grief. Over the years I got into the habit of shuttling aside those insights, and that night Annie didn't get the help that might have saved her."

He lets it rest there, watching out of the corner of his eye as Benton thinks it over. "You concealed your gift in order to fit in," he says. "You meant it for the greater good, didn't you?"

"I was already the queer cop," Brian corrects, "last thing I needed was to be the freak psychic, as well."

Benton jolts at that, looks at him sharply, but Brian pushes on, finally sure of where he's headed. "I got used to pulling back from the edge, retreating to safety just when I was about to get a look at what was there. If I was wrong, or if I couldn't document the path, put it down on paper so it made sense to other people, I figured it was too risky. But these days, Benton, I am well and truly tired of _flinching._

Now you... I'm wondering what you'll do when Dief passes on, and there in the back of my head I keep coming up with some pretty bleak answers. Will you just give up, walk out into the snow one night and let yourself die alone out on the ice? That's the path I keep seeing you take, and I'm not keen on it."

Benton scratches with a short finger nail at the smooth, cold glass. "That would be an extreme reaction."

Liar, liar. 

"What will you _do,_ Benton?"

"I don't know." Benton's warm breath condenses on the glass.

"Your friend who looks like me... You were quite close?" 

Benton brushes the pads of his fingers over the slider, tracing patterns Brian can't see. "I wasn't the one for him, at the last. He tried. He did. It took a great deal of courage for him to acknowledge the truth, to make the decision, I just... You know, I miss his friendship even more than... " Benton's expression suddenly hardens, and he rises swiftly to his feet, outraged.

"No! No, you can't do this to me, I traveled so far to forget--how can you--Jesus, Brian, I'm not a suspect for you to interrogate!"

Brian sees it then, Benton's loss, his loneliness, tamped down for years, shunted aside in favor of the practicalities of survival in the harsh north, and the hope of oblivion, but they're crowding in on him now, overwhelming him, demanding to be _felt._

Benton backs into the living room, demanding, "How did you get into my _head_ this way? You had no right!"

"You can be angry with me, if you want to," Brian tells him, as he rises to follow, "but I refuse to hand you over to a cold, lonely death. Not without a fight." He gestures with his chin toward Diefenbaker. "You think he doesn't know what you're thinking? You need to come in from the cold here, Benton."

Benton accuses, "You don't know me! We met _yesterday!_ You don't know what I want or--or what I need, you don't know me, Brian!"

Benton's got both fists clenched, so maybe he's asking for a sock in the jaw, but Brian steps forward. 

Benton takes a step back, glancing around him, negotiating the unfamiliar room in the dark. "I need to leave. I have to--to go back, you see too much, it's not fair!"

"Come here," Brian tells him. He doesn't, but he stands still, and allows Brian to come close. Benton stands shaking, ready to bolt. 

Brian rests one hand on the side of Benton's neck, thumbs lightly along his jaw. "Scared of the thaw, is that it?"

"I had two best friends in Chicago," Benton gasps out. "And I lost them _both_ when they... when. Brian, I can't do this, it's not safe, I'll die!"

"Worse," Brian cautions him gently, "you might live."

One of the sliding doors crashes in, glass everywhere, and dark figures rushing in, and Brian has but a moment to wish for his weapon left in his bedroom, and then there are fists and shouting and his arm _hurts,_ and then he's on the floor, half winded from the impact, and some guy he's never seen before is on top of him with one hand around Brian's throat and Brian's fending off the other hand that's got a pistol in it - small calibre, his brain supplies unhelpfully, makes less noise, kills just as dead - and then there are more people rushing in behind the first two, and one of them pulls the man off of Brian, and it's Gary Rodriguez, thank God.

"Sorry," Gary huffs, as he's kneeling on the guy's back and cuffing him. "We lost 'em when they snuck around the other side and came through the neighbor's yard."

Brian waves off the apology, searching in the dark for Benton. He finds Dave Rogers hovering fretfully near the man Brian recognizes as Joseph Carlin, sprawled face-up on the rug, with Diefenbaker crouched over him, snarling fit to put all the little hairs up at the back of Brian's neck. Dief is old, and his joints hurt him, but he's got all of his teeth, and right now he is showing every one of them to Joseph Carlin, who has pissed himself with terror. Brian can smell it.

Benton calls, "Dief.... Dief, let the officers have him now."

Diefenbaker backs off reluctantly, licking his jaws, and then he looks at Benton and whines. Brian catches Benton as he falls, a dark stain spreading over the front of his under shirt.

"I am so tired," Benton murmurs against Brian's neck, and then he slumps, heavy and silent in Brian's arms.

Gary is calling in an officer down.

Benton's is a private room just off of ICU, but the hospital staff squeezes in a second bed for Brian, and he spends the night there, trying to stay awake. His arm is in a sling, and he's exhausted, and kind of high on pain meds by the time Benton is brought out of recovery. By late morning, when Brian wakes groggy and briefly disoriented he finds Diefenbaker asleep under Benton's bed.

Kate, ponderous in her state of impending motherhood, and not to be trifled with, explains that she gave Dief a bath - or mostly Mark gave him a bath, as Kate is too front-heavy to crouch over a bathtub these days.

"There was some vulgar language," Mark adds, "from both the wolf and the pregnant woman."

Kate glowers at him, "I'd smack you, if I could get out of this chair."

"We presented him as a therapy dog, which didn't fool anybody, but the hospital administration let him in anyway. They even gave him a nifty pass to wear on his collar."

Brian runs his fingers through his hair, trying vainly to get it to do something less eight-year-old. "Thanks. This'll mean a lot to Benton when he wakes up."

"You drool a little in your sleep," Kate informs him, as Mark pulls her out of the visitor's chair. "I'm going to have trouble calling you Sir, after this."

Brian's awake when Benton's eyes open for the first time. Benton is too dopey to recognize anybody, and he quickly falls back to sleep. When Benton wakes again some hours later, he seems to register Brian's presence, but then he begins to weep, softly, bitterly, until he falls asleep again, and Brian asks a nurse if that's normal.

"It's not unusual," she advises him, "but next time he comes around, see if you can get him to tell you if he's in too much pain." She gives Brian a knowing smile, all kindness, and she says, "We're all about pain management here," as though she's guessed what he hasn't told her. He supposes she's had plenty of practice.

Diefenbaker returns from a foray to the nurses' station, bringing Brian a donut. Brian thanks him and breaks off a piece that hasn't got wolf spit on it.

It's another six hours before Benton rouses a third time, late in the night, and Brian is lying on his cot on his side, dozing and watching Benton for signs of life. This time, Benton's eyes focus on Brian.

"Hey," Brian says.

Benton licks the inside of his mouth, starts to fidget, and finally croaks out, "Mm, water, where...?"

Brian crawls out of his nest and he helps Benton to a plastic glass with a straw in it. "You okay? I mean, enough pain meds, you need an extra pillow, or, um, anything?" 

Benton clears his throat, observing, "You got shot."

"I did," Brian admits, peering down at his damaged arm. "Beats a chest wound, though." He settles on the edge of Benton's bed. "Carlin got you just about two inches higher than where he shot you the last time. Convenient."

Wincing, Benton takes a slow, careful breath. His voice is rough, weary. "I am so very tired of being shot." His eyes fill with tears again, his face twisting with emotions he can't control.

Brian soothes him anxiously. "You just woke up, and you're up to your eyeballs in medication. Don't get yourself into a state, okay?"

Benton wipes resolutely at his tears. "Or stabbed. Or beaten. Or…" He confesses plaintively, "I have abandonment issues, Brian."

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere." Which is probably irrelevant, and Benton won't remember it by tomorrow, but there it is.

"Tell me," Benton pleads, and his eyes are wide and blue and entirely irresistible, "Tell me about sixteen acres of trees and pasture, and a warm cabin with its back to the north wind."

Benton is fighting the drift off to sleep again, and Brian figures he will end up repeating this story more than once, but that's okay. He makes himself more comfortable on Benton's hospital bed. 

"In 1897," Brian begins, "Erik Larson arrived in Boston harbor, owning one large dog of mixed parentage, the equivalent of one hundred sixty-three dollars US, and the contents of a single rucksack. He was twenty-three years old, and spoke mostly Swedish..."


End file.
